Agency - by Tasnim Hossain
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLYThis is part of our new 5-piece suite from South-Asian Australian writers inspired by the COVID situation in India and the Australian response
Anamika tucked her long hair behind her ear and bent back to her work. Scalpel in hand, she was cutting out an image of a new hybrid car, lurid yellow against the green cutting mat. She hadn’t been careful enough the day before, and the nick on her index finger throbbed.
A silent television screen blared the news behind her. The agency prided itself on being across whatever was happening around the world, from the latest winners of the Cannes Lions awards to the most recent human rights violations happening somewhere distant and exotic.
Anamika shut the images out. She knew what the report would say.
The death toll was rising. The morgues had run out of space. The ghats were filled with dead bodies; there was no space for mourners, just funeral pyre after funeral pyre, all along the riverbanks.
“The death toll was rising. The morgues had run out of space. The ghats were filled with dead bodies; there was no space for mourners, just funeral pyre after funeral pyre, all along the riverbanks.”
She tried not to think about her nani, one of the unmourned. One more person turning to ash and memory.
‘So sad,’ said Rob, one of the long-legged art directors she worked with, as he took a moment to stretch out of his hunch. ‘I can’t believe they were seriously talking about stopping people from coming home.’
‘Well, they shouldn’t have gone back in the first place, not during a pandemic,’ said Denny, his copywriting partner, with a shrug. ‘They all live on top of each other, so what do you expect? Diseases just waiting to spread.’
“‘Well, they shouldn’t have gone back in the first place, not during a pandemic,’ said Denny, his copywriting partner, with a shrug. ‘They all live on top of each other, so what do you expect? Diseases just waiting to spread.’”
Anamika listened without turning. And even though she was staring straight at the scalpel, she managed to nick her finger again.
A drop of blood fell on the cutting mat in a perfect crimson circle.
*
‘So, what’s your background, Anna – Anamika?’ The creative director looked up at her.
‘Yep, that’s right,’ she said, with what she hoped was a warm smile. ‘Ana, like in Frozen.’
He nodded at her to continue. His office was bright and airy, with clean lines and plate glass walls. She faced him across a vast desk. Its timber was the only hint of warmth in the room.
‘I started off doing a law degree, but then switched to comms in second year.’
‘Law? Smart cookie.’ The creative director swiped through the iPad she’d brought in with her portfolio loaded. He didn’t look at her. Anamika hoped that meant he was engrossed in her work; that it was a good sign.
‘And I majored in advertising and graphic design.’
The creative director looked up, a slight frown. She wished he’d turn back to her portfolio; the pretty pictures, glossy on the iPad screen.
‘That’s nice. I meant, where are you from? Have you been in Sydney long?’
Anamika swallowed. She shifted in her chair. ‘All my life.’
He nodded. ‘Nice.’
He handed her back the iPad, which she took and held tightly on her lap.
‘We have a good culture here at Cussler & Wright,’ he continued. ‘We’re not here to be artists. We’re here to sell products, but through the best, most creative work we can make. We work hard. We play hard. We look after our clients, but we also look after our people.’
He seemed to wait for a response, but Anamika didn’t know what to say.
‘I think you could be a good fit for this company. What do you think?
*
Here Anamika was, two years later, still a midweight graphic designer, still selling products, though she no longer thought it was the best, most creative work she could make.
At least she had a job. She felt guilty, grateful and sad. So many of her colleagues had lost their jobs last year. If people weren’t buying things, then Anamika, and everyone else like her, had nothing to sell.
But car companies still needed to try to sell their hybrid cars, so here she was, wiping blood off her fingertips and tuning out her co-workers.
‘I went to Goa on my gap year. Best parties. But the local girls were a bit rough and the local guys were ferals. There was this German backpacker though …’ Anamika heard Denny laugh and then go silent. She could feel him and Rob looking at her.
The whole agency had done racism and harassment training not long after she’d started. Not that there’d been any incidents, the creative director was keen to stress, but because they wanted to make sure that there wouldn’t be. Someone wheeled out the ‘work hard, play hard’ line again to remind everyone that there were still boundaries, and someone else muttered that HR was stifling creativity, but they all did the training and ended up passing with flying colours. At least that’s what management said.
Every so often, the creative director mentioned that they should hire another woman, or another person of colour, but it hadn’t happened. Not yet anyway.
*
Anamika was used to being in spaces that weren’t meant for her. In Grade 12, she’d been promoted to school captain just a few months out from the end of the year, after the previous captain had moved away quietly during the holidays. He had deleted his social media and his number was disconnected. Everybody whispered about it.
Anamika wore the role with discomfort; like her school blazer, cut for someone else. The events were awkward too. At one reception at her state’s Parliament House, the speeches had finished and the guests were mingling when one of the dignitaries approached her. She recognised him from TV, with his pasted-on smile and mid-priced suit. He extended a big hand to her, which she shook.
‘No, don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Let me guess.’
He held her hand a moment longer and looked over her. ‘India!’
For a moment, Anamika wasn’t sure what he was talking about. Then it fell into place. ‘Oh, I …’
‘You’re Indian, right? I mean, of Indian … origin, heritage?’
The minister had let go of her hand and she tried to stop herself from wiping it on her blazer.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I love India. Lots happening. I was there just last year with a big trade delegation. Mumbai, New Delhi. Lots of opportunities. Hadn’t been since the ’90s when my wife and I did South-East Asia.’
Anamika nodded. She didn’t know any of those places. Her family was from Kolkata and she hadn’t been there since she was a child.
‘Do you visit much?’
‘I haven’t been since I was 10.’
‘You’re missing out. You know, you should go. It’s a very beautiful country. Beautiful people.’
The minister waited for her to respond, but Anamika struggled to think of anything. He continued. ‘I tell everyone that they should go. But you, especially, should go. It’s your country, after all.’
The minister smiled again and strangely, it seemed genuine. The smile Anamika returned was just a shadow.
*
Anamika finished the mock-up and stood back to take a look. She could have done all this on her computer but there was something about cutting and moving things physically that made it feel tangible, like she could experience it for the first time, rather than staring at it on a screen for hours, until it lost all meaning.
She took the mock-up back to her desk and sat down. Certainly not her best, most creative work. But she was selling a car – it didn’t really matter anymore. She could feel Rob’s eyes on her. Denny had wandered off, probably for his third espresso. She focused on her work.
‘Hey, Anamika.’
She looked up to meet Rob’s gaze.
‘You know Denny, he’s just messing around. And I’m …’
Anamika waited.
‘I’m sorry,’ Rob said, finally. ‘And I hope your family, back home in India I mean, are all okay.’
For a moment, Anamika thought about telling him about her nani. Instead, she smiled and nodded, accepting the apology in silence, and turned back to her work. ▼
Photo by Judson Moore on Unsplash
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